Irving finished his writing, dusted the chalk from his fingers, and
returned to his seat. The boys before him were now bent industriously
over their tablets; Scarborough, Westby, and Dennison were drawing
figures on the blackboard, using the long pointers for rulers and making
beautiful circles by means of chalk attached to pieces of string. A
glance at Westby showed that youth apparently intent upon solving the
problem assigned him and at work upon it intelligently. Irving began to
feel serene; he proceeded to correct the algebra exercises of the Fourth
Form, which he had received the hour before.

A sudden titter from some one down in front, hastily suppressed and
transformed into a cough, caused him to look up. Morrill, with his mouth
hidden behind his hand, was glancing off toward Westby, and Irving
followed the direction of the glance.

Westby had completed his geometrical figures and was now engaged in
labeling them with letters. But instead of employing the usual
geometrical symbols A, B, C, and so on, he was skipping about through
the alphabet, and Irving immediately perceived that he was not choosing
letters at random. Irving observed that the initials of his own name, I,
C, U, formed, as it were, the corner-stone of the geometrical edifice.

At that moment Westby coughed—an unnatural cough. And instantly a
miracle happened; every single wooden eraser—there were half a dozen of
them—leaped from its place on the shelf beneath the blackboard and
tumbled clattering down the steps to the floor. At the same instant
Westby flung up both arms, tottered on the topmost step, and succeeded
in regaining his poise with apparently great difficulty.